Two weeks into my new job, I'd learned three important things about the Sterling mansion: the morning room had excellent natural light, Mrs. Lee made the best coffee I'd ever tasted, and Victoria Sterling could make "good morning" sound like a death threat.
"You're here early," she'd said that morning, finding me in the kitchen reviewing lesson plans. Her smile was pleasant. Her eyes were not.
"Millie wanted to start a new book series. I thought I'd prepare."
"How dedicated." She poured herself sparkling water, the fizz unnaturally loud in the quiet kitchen. "I do hope you're not getting too comfortable. Tutoring positions can be so... temporary."
"I'll keep that in mind."
She'd glided out, leaving behind the faint scent of expensive perfume and the distinct impression that I'd been warned. Again.
This was our routine now. Victoria never attacked directly when Nathaniel might hear; she was far too smart for that.Instead, she waged a quiet war of cuts and implications, death by a thousand paper cuts delivered with a society smile.
"Millie's penmanship is still quite messy," she'd observed yesterday, examining homework I'd left on the counter. "I suppose public school standards are different."
"She's seven," I'd said evenly. "Her penmanship is age-appropriate."
"If you say so. You're the expert." The way she saidexpertmade it sound like a disease.
But none of it mattered when I was with Millie. In the morning room, with its bay windows and bookshelves, we existed in our own world. She was blooming; there was no other word for it. The quiet, cautious child I'd met that rainy night was slowly being replaced by someone brighter, louder, and more willing to take up space.
"Miss Claire, I'mbored," she announced that Thursday afternoon, flopping dramatically across the reading couch. Rain streaked the windows, trapping us inside.
"You just finished an entire chapter. That's not boring, that's impressive."
"But now I have wiggles." She squirmed for emphasis. "Too many wiggles."
I laughed. "Wiggles are serious business. What do you usually do about them?"
"Daddy used to let me wrestle him sometimes." Her face fell slightly. "But we haven’t done that since mommy..."
"Well." I set down my papers. "I don't know how to wrestle, but I'm an excellent dramatic loser. Does that count?"
Her eyes lit up. "Really?"
"Really. But we need rules. No actual violence. Pillows only. And if I say 'uncle,' you have to stop."
"What's uncle?"
"It means I surrender. It's a wrestling thing."
"Okay!" She grabbed a throw pillow, bouncing on her toes. "I'll be The Undertaker. He's my favorite wrestler."
"The Undertaker. Sounds terrifying."
"Heis. He does this." She made a throat-cutting gesture and attempted a menacing face that was mostly adorable.
We ended up on the family room couch, the massive TV playing an old wrestling match Millie had found while I dramatically pretended to be defeated by her pillow attacks. The Undertaker stalked across the screen in his black coat, and Millie provided enthusiastic commentary.
"He's going to do the chokeslam! Watch, watch!"
"I'm watching! This is very educational!"
She giggled and whacked me with the pillow again. I grabbed her and tickled her ribs, and her shriek of laughter echoed off the high ceilings. For a moment, the house actually felt like a home.
"Who is making all thatnoisein my living room?"
Victoria's voice sliced through our laughter like a blade through silk. She stood in the doorway, immaculate in cream silk, her expression one of pained distaste, as if she'd discovered rodents on her furniture.
